I miss home badly sometimes. But then I remember there's nothing left to miss anymore. I feel safer here.

I can't argue that Finnick isn't one of the most stunning, sensuous people on the planet. But I can honestly say he's never been attractive to me. Maybe he's too pretty, or maybe he's too easy to get, or maybe it's really that he'd just be too easy to lose.

That's when I hear the scream. So full of fear and pain it ices my blood. And so familiar. I drop the spile, forget where I am or what lies ahead, only know I must reach her, protect her. I run wildly in the direction of the voice, heedless of danger, ripping through vines and branches, through anything that keeps me from reaching her. From reaching my little sister.

Beauty that arose out of pain.

Let the Seventy-forth Hunger Games begin, Cato, I think. Let them begin for real.

Most rats read. Our frustration is, we cannot hold a pen to write.

I merely feel emptyness. A hollow of dead brush where flowers use to bloom.